


Scarlet Stalker

by HarkinTheDestroyer



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Allen Walker is a Little Shit, BAMF Allen Walker, BAMF Lenalee Lee, Bookman Lavi (D.Gray-man), Cross Marian is an Asshole, Kanda Yuu Swears a Lot, Kanda Yuu has Feelings, Past Allen Walker, Somewhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29793990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarkinTheDestroyer/pseuds/HarkinTheDestroyer
Summary: What if the oh-so young Allen Walker just so happened to recognize Mana's voice in the Millennium Earl and became slightly obsessed? Really, Mana should have been aware of the possible contingencies when he decided to 'die'. People who've had nothing tend to cling to what they have, you know.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	1. Hamlet Ain't Got Nothing on this Irony

**Author's Note:**

> A couple things to note that a fairly important if you want to read this story:  
> 1\. Allen will be 10 instead of 12 when Mana 'dies'. Why? I just felt like it. Totally not important to the plot or anything.  
> 2\. I like it when Allen had weird unknown memories of the past. I feel like they're fitting for a character that likely has his own forgotten memories on top of Neah's.  
> 3\. I encourage comments, plot theories, and good fic recommendations!

Irony is such a beautiful and bitter thing. Much like anything both lovely and acrid, it tends to land the most brutal and personal hits. Quite synonymous to times where one lady _acquaintance_ of Cross happens upon the other and they become fast, vengeful friends. Vindictive women and irony both have an unrivaled tendency to arrive during the most unfortunate of situations. That is to say, it invokes hilarity upon enemies and allies alike; positive and negative. Mostly, however, irony has an almost cruel tendency to strike the unaware without mercy or particular care. If karma’s a bitch… then irony is certainly a bastard.

Then again, at least karma only came in one part. Irony had a rather deplorable habit of coming in four parts. Really. Irony should have known that anything classy comes in threes, but amongst clowns and gamblers common, there can be exceptions made since four of a kind. Dramatic irony could be pictured as that man dress darkly and skulking through the shadows cast by tall light posts. He secretly stalks the lady dressed in shaded pink up the street, known to the world but not to her. He’ll strike unexpectedly under the eyes of unseen stars and the moon. Verbal irony plays the swindler. Always talking, rambling, gossiping, speaking, but always meaning anything else than what is said. He dances with words as Cross does’ ladies… that is to say a lot and frequently. Comedic irony is, of course, the clown who cares little for appearances and less for who finds his jokes humorous.

Last but not least comes the dreaded situational irony. This particular part, the joker of irony, wears many costumes. It dances often between happiness, surprise, shock, confusion, and despair. Like a good gambler, its cards are never revealed until the very last second. It comes as babies, marriage, breakups, and death. For every person, it is slightly different, unique, or individualized one might say. For Allen Walker, this irony came as a simply carved slab of stone. Disturbingly prime and unnaturally clean, a single name carved onto polished slate; _Mana Walker_. Ah, raise the glass to common despair and the usual twisted smile fate. A boy lost his father and even his death was ironic! The man so prone to running in streets killed by a carriage while walking on the sidewalk upon his beloved son’s insistence.

A stroke of deplorable luck. A bad hand of cards against detestable kismet. Per the norm with particular bad gambles, something of importance, of value was to be lost. Mana Walker lost at age… How old was Mana? He still appeared to Allen around sixty and he sincerely doubted the man had been anywhere near seventeen. Whatever... he supposed it really wasn’t important how _old_ Mana was now. A soft sigh faded to the winds. When those whom are used to having nothing and being nothing themselves… it is only natural that anything that tells them otherwise immediately becomes precious. Mana had freely given love, kindness, compassion, and warmth. Was it selfish that the being known as Red and now as Allen craved it like an old soldier does morphine? He really could help but miss the gone and vanished…

“ _A good evening to you_.” A haunting melodic voice greeted.

Allen barely looked up from his depression, and then only because the voice struck a familiar chord within his memories. His doleful silver eyes took in a rather terrifying visage. A fat, almost goblin-like clown, hung over Mana’s grave much like a bashful girl behind a tree. Although, with that thought, it would have to be an extraordinarily wide tree. Allen blinked; his mouth parted slightly in shock.

“Shall I revive Mana Walker for you?” The strange clown continued most intently.

Allen didn’t respond. There was something painstakingly familiar about that voice, the outrageous costume as well. It just didn’t sit right within both his mind and his stomach that this man remained nameless. He closed his eyes in thought.

As if considering that an answer the clown went on, “If you wish me to, I need your assistance.”

Nothing came forward in his mind as a name dance so tantalizingly upon his tongue. It was a frustration similar to that of walking in a room and forgetting your purpose… or like coming across another of Cross’ numerous debts.

“I need you, the beloved one,” A slight pause as if for dramatic effect, “to call Mana out from the heavens.”

That rang a bell. Mana… That was Mana’s voice. Allen’s eyes snapped open and he stared intently at the strange goblin clown. There was no mistaking that voice as anyone else. It was familiar and musical, the goofy tilt unlost within the costume. Allen narrowed his eyes at the ridiculously decorated top hat. Well… certainly they held the same… tastes.

“Mana…” He voiced silently.

He nodded.

“Yes indeed!” Mana clapped his hands, “You can steal back your Mana from that hateful God!”

Allen felt his face twist into an expression filled to the brim with a relieved sort of anger. A vein slowly began to show itself on his forehead. Both his hand folded themselves into a shaking fist. His moving, albeit twitchy, left arm went unnoticed. Mana would likely chide him later for reverting into Red’s usual anger, but at the moment he felt as though it was perfectly justified. Summoning speed Allen was unaware he even had, he vaulted over Mana’s supposed grave and landed a fist right to the face of the very not-dead man. Mana crashed to the ground clutching his nose. Seeing no reason to show sympathy, Allen proceeded to kick him in the ribs while shouting obscenities. A perfectly normal reaction given that the only family he ever had was apparently ‘ _not dead_ ’.

“You STUPID clown!” He screamed as he landed a particularly vicious kick to the kidneys.

Mana let out a pained groan. Duly noted and purposely ignored.

“I thought you were DEAD!” He screeched.

After one last kick, Allen stopped and took in several sobbing breaths. Tears fell from his eyes despite his best efforts to hold them back. He raised a dirty arm to whip them away.

“Mana…” Allen cried, “Was I… Was I truly so awful you wanted to leave me behind?”

Mana ignored him and scuttled several feet away while now clutching his ribs. He pointed an accusing finger at the boy.

“You!” He seethed, “Why did you hit me!”

Allen scowled despite the tears.

“Cause you’re Mana…” The scowl hardened, “A stupid, idiotic, _crazy_ clown.”

For several moments… all was silent. Quiet in the way that both parties were beginning to come to conclusions vastly different from each other's. Allen, twisted by grief and sorrow was convinced that this strange clown was, with beyond a doubt, Mana. He really wasn’t that far off. There are many things one cannot be changed easily, and the voice in one of them. The creature known as the Millennium Earl, on the other hand, was coming to the conclusion that he was most definitely not Mana and that this kid deranged. Only the latter could be considered even slightly correct.

“I’m not Mana!” Mana hissed.

A pause.

“…Yes you are.”

“No I’m not!”

“You are!”

“I’m not!

“Yes!”

“No!”

Allen grit his teeth.

“Fine! If you’re not Mana... then what’s your name?” He questioned pointedly.

Ah, the logic of ten-year-olds. Quite brilliant when deployed in the proper moment.

“I’m the Millennium Earl, little boy.” He said in a low voice usually reserved for the announcement of titles and men with rather large egos, “I am the master of the Akuma and patriarch of the Noah.”

Allen stared at him with a blank expression. Mana continued to perform several poses, each more elaborate than the last.

“That’s a title, not a name…” He deadpanned.

Mana froze as though in shock. Not such an unexpected reaction when faced with the surprisingly correct and logical points often brought about by children. Allen shrugged his shoulders.

“See you’re Mana.” He stated offhandedly as though that was common knowledge, “That carriage to the head must have knocked up your memory and increased your craziness, that’s all.”

Mana shook with unreasonable anger.

“No!” He shouted much like a child, “I’m not Mana! I’m the _Mellenniu_ –”

The young boy was swift to interrupt.

“Sure, sure. You’re the Millennium Earl. Lame title. Don’t know why you want it. But that’s not what I’m asking. What’s your name?” Allen pouted, “It’s not that hard! I’m Allen Walker! Now give yours.” Another pause, “It’s only proper manners.”

What happened next was rather unfair. Mana, stunned by logic and peeved by his own insanity, chose not to answer. He fled the scene unwilling to deal with some brat that insisted he was that hateful _Mana_ and who he wouldn’t be getting an Akuma out of. Allen was left with the shattered fragments of hope glistening amongst the blood of his fingers. A seed of obsession was planted with Mana’s denial of self, and Allen was now determined to return to his sides. It could be considered a proper throw of the wrench, a simple flick of the wrist really, straight into the face of fate. Sure, Cross would happen upon him, younger than expected and with eerily familiar steely grey eyes. He would not be as easy to manage, with a despairing sigh and the familiar stench of irony, he would be just like the previous Allen Walker.


	2. Macbeth's Bundle o' Karma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cross deals with the karma that comes with dealing with a dead-not-so-dead friend.

Irony and karma go hand in hand just as well as gasoline and a match or Romeo and Juliet. This is to say pray to the _unholy mother of hell_ that they aren’t left alone in a room together. Some idiot’s going to mess something up, light the match if you will, and cause some form of ridiculous disaster. An outcome of the usual fiery explosion, a cheerful vile of poison, or something sharp and pointy becoming acquainted with the general cardiovascular region. Basically, such lovely partnerships usually end in catastrophes of incomprehensible proportions. Perhaps irony and karma go less elementary girls clutching each other’s hands while they prance through a field of bloody flowers with stems of bone, and more like a sleazy bastard opening the door for the conniving bitch.

Irony comes first, providing an _oh-so_ graceful opening for karma to slip in and slit the throats of those who deserve it. As per with most bitches, such retribution, such avengement, such _karma_ the red-hot slap of their frigid, boney hands is most definitely expected. The scarlet palm mark is a badge of shame or a target for teasing among some friends. It comes in one-part since the doubling of any vengeance just renews the cycle of retaliation. She is a pretty blood-dressed lady. The one that shifts from lover to lover. The abused, broken child covered in the deplorable grime of the world. Fiery women; volcanoes slowly building under the pressure of society. And the men as well… refused, denied, gore-filled eyes and green in the face with jealousy.

Most think themselves above the frivolities and flirtatious promiscuities of karma. It’s better to think of them as blinded by the shade of her blush and glamour of her smile and dress. They never notice the knives hidden beneath the corset until recent events have perhaps become a little _too_ personal, the blade striking too close to heart. Some would find sadistic pleasure in watching the donning look of horrified realization fluttering across their faces as sharpness slips past ribs and poison reaches the blood. While the subjects of karma don’t always die, is there truly any way to deal with the soul-shredding consequences? Target, reciprocator, and unaltered whiteness placed aside. Obviously yes. There are plenty of ways to deal with emotional trauma. Most protagonists just chose not to deal. Of course, there are also many ways to go about–

Booze.

Hem. There are many ways to go about rectifying such–

Alcohol.

There are many ways–

Liquor.

–to go about–

Spirits

–rectifying such–

Grog.

–emotional strife.

Rotgut.

Hmmm! Fine! Just toss back a couple of cups of wine, brood out your sorrows away, and act fabulous despite being hungover. Because that won’t develop numerous personality issues! It is almost guaranteed that everybody will at least meet one of _that_ kind of person at least once in their life. The glorified assholes with problems as deep as the sea and an almost hateful skill when it comes to dressing finely. Morally ambiguous. Deplorable philosophy regarding their fellow human beings. Always a little _too smooth._ Perhaps they even have an obscene amount of debts they like to throw around willy-nilly. Hrm. This is most definitely Cross Marian. A man previously immune to all things ironic and karmic no longer.

Cross had never really realized that one day he would pay for previous actions or even just his own persona. Sure, he had gotten his own fair end of the teasing spectrum through those despicable twins. He had even been subjected to demeaning nicknames and scolding for his nasty habits via one of his more precious and terrifying friend. Unable to do anything while his friends were in need, useless as the picture frame fell to the ground and shattered. He lost one to madness, another to death, and the remaining one to his own carelessness. Cross Marian understood his karma. He accepted and excepted it. However, regret towards his friends and his actions aside… Cross didn’t want to deal with such familiar, now child-like, steely grey eyes. The brat was too reminiscent for comfort and too young for him to correctly deal with the situation. It was all the same. Red hair, eyes, polite with hidden emotion personality, and that _god-forsaken_ nickname.

“Mari!” A deceivingly innocent voice sounded from behind him.

The gunshot sounded loud in the muted, run-down bedroom of some seedy inn he’d managed to secure temporary residency in. Cross continued to choke on the fine wine that his lungs had decided they wanted a taste of. He side-eyed the disturbingly polite grin his _apprentice_ was sending him. The brat was creepy on the best of days. Always knowing things he most definitely shouldn’t. Perhaps it was a side effect of the conflicting memories currently repressed within his small body. The hidden recollections of both a top-tier scholar and a rather knowledgeable magician. Two willful people smashed into one… It would surely cause suffering later on. He supposed that it was rather karmic that the brat would have occasional, astounding spouts on knowledge.

_Cross awoke to something slamming harshly into his head. In the wake of sleep, his sense of past and present mixed for only a second under the familiar aching pressure of his skull._

_“Fucking hell Allen!” He had growled._

_The book slammed into his skull once again and Cross let another string of profanities._

_“What have I told you about taking care of my books Marian.” Allen chided him._

_It was then that Cross paused. Time appeared to freeze only for a second. Allen was gone. He would never return and his only legacy would soon be destroyed as well. None of this was real. Looking up Cross took in the pouting form of his recently appointed apprentice. A half-destroyed book was clutched protectively against his chest. Cross let out a sigh and ran a hand down his face._

_“That’s not your book stupid pupil.” He deadpanned._

_A glazed look appeared to overtake Allen, a clear aura of confusion almost palpable._

_“It’s… not?”_

_Cross brushed wrinkles out from his clothes._

_“No, it’s not.”_

_Allen clutched the book tighter and stuck his tongue out Cross._

_“Well then, since you clearly can’t take care of it properly…” Allen grinned, “Then it’s mine now!”_

Cross shook away the remains of such memories. The past would forever remain in the past. Collecting himself, he turned to glare at the little heathen. Timcanpy sat on his head with an identical grin. That little traitor…

“What do you want idiot pupil…” He sighed.

Cross was beginning to get the feeling that this conversation really wasn’t going to end up anywhere favorable. Allen pulled a packed travel bag over his shoulder. Yep. This was definitely not good. Cross had thought the brat had grown out of his escape faze.

“I don’t want anything! I was just being polite and telling you where I was off to.” He supplied with a smile.

Cross Marian was not a fan of children. They were emotional, grubby, and annoyingly whiney at the best of times. However, he would prefer them to this eleven-year-old who wore the mask of Allen just as well as the original.

“And just _where_ do you think your off to?” He questioned exasperatedly.

A strange and not all that unfamiliar gleam entered the younger Allen’s eyes.

“The Black Order.”

Cross jerked at that answer. Everything was progressing much too quickly. Mana hadn’t shouldn’t have _‘died_ ’ as soon as he did. Allen should not have figured out the Millennium Earl’s identity so early. Only a year with Cross and he had already decided to go off to the Order. Central had only just removed its dark and dangerous claws as Komui rose to the position of Supervisor of the European Branch. Even then, he was quite sure not all of the Crows had left their nests yet.

“What makes you think that I’ll let you go?” He questioned darkly.

It wasn’t long before the dreaded demonic smile spread across Allen’s face. The boy shrugged offhandedly.

“Hoh? Apparently, you forget that your apprentice currently has knowledge of your current position, places in which you owe a fair amount of cash, and the location of the Order which you hate oh-so-much.” Allen continued with a smirk, “Force me to remain by your side and who’s to say what might happen?”

A moment of silence.

“It’s about time you got out of my hair.” Cross finished flawlessly, “I’ll write you a recommendation letter. Take the little traitor… Timcanpy with you.”

With a nod his apprentice left the room. Cross Marian stared at the murky green bottle across from him. His eyes flickered towards the wine glass next to it.

“Screw this…” He muttered.

Cross grabbed the whole bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be honest... I don't know how long I slept last night, but it was not enough. I'm not one of those people to get so stressed I can't sleep, I wouldn't even call myself a particularly anxiety-ridden person... I've noticed that over many years of consecutive, awkward conversations that I think faster than most people. This does not mean I am remotely smarter or better at computing things than the average person. My thought process is just... well, faster. Because of this, I have a tendency to cling to bigger ideas and think about everything there is to think about them. I do this at night... instead of sleeping. I'm pretty hyper regardless of how much sleep I get (hint hint never give me caffeine), but I don't particularly like thinking obsessively over the email I sent to my math teacher four hours ago, how I worded it, that one comma I missed and counting the second until she replies back. Which, by the way, wasn't until around 7 (am). I really didn't mean to write all this, I just felt like it was something I needed to get off my chest. Well, mostly I don't want to think about it again tonight and this helps. 
> 
> I wrote bitch so many times in this chapter that my feminism got riled up... I'll bore you with that mind-bending lecture in another chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I live for comments! Throw them at me!
> 
> It has gotten to the point... that I feel I need to clarify. Clarify what you might ask? My writing style of course! 'Cause some of you just don't seem to get it! I write my works to be funny while still including plot elements. I have gotten 'advise' on my works where I get things like 'yeah I know it's supposed to be funny been this scene is supposed to be angsty'. You know who you are...  
> Anyway, I would like you, my dear little readers, to understand that in most comedic scenes if you remove what's funny it becomes gosh-darn depressing or cringy. It removes the 'fun' aspect which I like to focus on. So please, tell me how you laughed your guts out and chortled with laughter in the middle of class because that's what I am going for! Perhaps my comedy isn't meant to be angsty, after all, there is this wonderful gem called black humor for a reason...


End file.
